


In Between What We Mean and the Things We Say

by marose



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky needs a therapist, Bucky thinks Steve is his handler, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dehumanization, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Ignores Canon After That, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Explicit, Past Brainwashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Power Imbalance, Unhealthy Relationships, Unintentional Emotional Manipulation, Vulnerable Bucky, past HYDRA Trash Party, spoiler alert: he doesn't get one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 18:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marose/pseuds/marose
Summary: After taking what little revenge on HYDRA that he could, Bucky needs a new handler.Captain America seems more than willing to take him in.orSteve has much more power over Bucky than he realises.





	In Between What We Mean and the Things We Say

The Asset is tired. The Asset has spent months systematically and mercilessly eliminating each Hydra base it has knowledge of. It fears going back, fears that like it fears nothing else, and the only way to be rid of that terror is to destroy its source.

The Asset is tired, and it is scared, and it stands, panting, at the edge of the smouldering wreck that was the last Hydra base it knows of. It’s sure there are many more, and the dread in its gut is no easier to carry.

The Asset has nowhere to go, now, no one to report to, and suddenly it’s standing at the edge of a sheer drop into panic. A free-fall of hopeless, directionless _nothing._ Its body needs nourishment, and rest.

The Asset walks. The Asset hides. The Asset sleeps. And then, the Asset decides.

Captain America has been looking for it, following it, and he had seemed so tantalisingly familiar.

Captain America is looking for it, so the Asset will let him find it.

-

The Captain’s apartment is surprisingly easy to break into. The Asset feels a strange sense of annoyed worry, but puts it aside; it is neither useful nor appropriate.

The Asset looks around, assesses the threat. Everything is mostly untouched. There is dust on the television. There is a laptop and a mess of notes on a mostly empty desk. There is a plate and a mug in the sink. There are no pictures on the walls, nor any indication of any hobbies aside from a few records beside an old fashioned record player. The bedsheets are perfectly folded at the corners and smoothed down crease-free. There are clothes left on the floor in the corner by the door. Hints of life, but very few.

The Asset takes a seat on the sofa, and waits.

When the Captain returns, he’s already alert, already aware of the Asset’s presence, and the Asset is impressed. The Captain calls the Asset Bucky, and it does not correct him.

“Bucky,” the Captain says, like he can’t believe the Asset is real. It isn’t. “I’ve been—how are you? Are you okay? Of course you’re not, what am I… Hi.”

The Asset watches the Captain’s face, flushed pink, spread into a wide smile. The expression seems genuine. The Asset has pleased the Captain by coming to him; he wants to keep it. The Asset is relieved.

It lets the Captain take its right hand between his own as he examines the cuts and bruises there. It has healed a lot since its last violent encounter, but the Captain still seems concerned.

“You’re hurt,” the Captain says, and it is not a report request but he seems to be waiting for a response so the Asset offers one.

“I’m not damaged severely enough to need any repairs. I will heal.”

It is the first time the Asset has spoken in a long time, and its voice scratches on the way out.

The Captain frowns, and the Asset wonders for a moment what it has done to upset him, but then he says, “Bucky,” and puts a hand to the Asset’s right shoulder – a neutral touch done gently – and the Asset knows the Captain isn’t angry with it, though he isn’t pleased either.

The Asset finds it difficult to figure out the response and what it means, how it should react.

“You must be hungry,” the Captain says then, standing. “Come on, I’ll make some dinner and then you can go get cleaned up.”

The tight ball of tension in the Asset's chest loosens in relief. Orders. It stands with the Captain and follows him to the kitchen.

When the Asset has eaten and washed and dressed in the Captain’s clothes to sleep, it says, “Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re welcome, Bucky, always,” the Captain replies, quick and insistent. He looks at the Asset for a moment before adding, “But call me Steve.”

“Steve,” the Asset repeats obediently, and the Captain – Steve – smiles big and pleased. His whole face changes when he is pleased with the Asset; that, at least, it is able to tell easily. The Asset’s chest goes warm and loose. The Asset is good.

-

The Asset meets Sam almost immediately, sees him regularly after finding Steve. Sam has Steve’s respect, is Steve’s equal in many ways, and his military bearing puts the Asset at ease. Steve’s apartment seems like a place the Asset belongs, with Steve’s relaxing authority and Sam, when he visits, looking at the Asset in that cautious way new Hydra agents used to.

Sam is smiling, now, and he’s speaking, and the Asset sees the shift of muscle before Sam even starts to reach out—a pat on the shoulder, it quickly assesses: unthreatening but unauthorised. It has a new handler, and must err on the side of caution until it learns all the new rules. Sam is Steve’s second in command, but Steve may not want Sam touching his property.

The Asset steps back swiftly, glances at Steve and back to Sam who looks surprised but… apologetic?

“Sorry, man,” Sam says, holding his hands up, palms facing out. Surrender? No, submission; showing he is not a threat. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

The Asset frowns. It has nothing to do with what the Asset itself wants, and Sam seems upset by a perceived rejection.

“You are unauthorised to engage in physical contact,” the Asset says, hoping to clear the misunderstanding up.

It looks to Steve again, to try and judge his reaction, but Steve is often difficult for the Asset to read accurately and it thinks he looks concerned which doesn’t seem to fit.

Sam and Steve exchange a look, and the Asset realises that it has used the incorrect wording for this environment. These people dislike it when the Asset talks how it has been trained to.

It is about to correct its mistake but Steve starts to speak so the Asset shuts its mouth and awaits instruction.

“Unauthorised by who, Buck? You?”

The Asset’s frown deepens, confused, always confused by Steve. It _belongs_ to Steve. If Steve wants it to allow Sam to touch it all he has to do is say. Steve looks at the Asset with eyes wide, full of wonder or worry; perhaps he stares like that to make sure the Asset is behaving adequately. The Asset is unsure, but it finds the attention pleasing. Strangely distracting.

“Do you not want Sam to touch you?”

The Asset hesitates, uncomfortable with the question, with the wording, like it’s there to trip the Asset up. It isn’t leading the Asset to the right answer; it doesn’t know what Steve wants it to say.

“I don’t understand the question,” the Asset finally settles on, so Steve can give it an indication of the correct response.

Steve tenses, face scrunching up, displeased. The Asset has answered incorrectly, or perhaps there was no correct answer. Still, the Asset has managed to keep Steve happy until now, and it panics for a moment: should it correct its answer or stay silent until Steve tells it otherwise?

It’s sure it’s never had a handler like Steve before. Steve has rarely allowed it the relief of a direct order in its short time here and it’s frustrating and worrying but the Asset thinks Steve is testing it in some way and it’s determined to pass.

The Asset stands still and silent and waits for Steve to respond or else reprimand it for its misstep.

Steve does neither.

“Okay,” Steve says, coming to a decision. He straightens, and the Asset’s whole body strains towards the impending command. “Okay. People will only touch you if you say they can, alright Bucky? It’s your choice. You let me know if anyone does anything you don’t—anything that makes you uncomfortable, okay?”

The Asset pauses for a moment, mind racing, before it relaxes, breathes out. Now it understands. Steve wants the Asset willing.

Steve wants the Asset to beg for its scraps.

“Of course. Steve.”

-

There is a moment when Steve reaches out, unexpected and quick, and the Asset flinches.

It thinks of Hydra agents, its old masters. It thinks of swift back-handers, swollen lips and bloodied knuckles and sharp breath. It thinks of its masters’ glee when it moaned, when it stuttered, when it jerked its head back away from their rough hands, forcing them to clutch its chin tight in their grip.

So, Steve reaches out, _about to strike,_ and the Asset flinches, and Steve gasps, jolts back and away from the Asset like _it_ just stuck _him._

The reaction is startling, and the Asset stills, eyes going round and wide.

“I’m sorry,” the Asset quickly says, though it’s not sure what it did to upset Steve so badly.

“Don’t apologise to me, Jesus Christ, Bucky.”

The Asset hangs its head, keeps carefully, perfectly still when Steve reaches out a slow hand to rest gentle at the Asset’s shoulder.

“I won’t sneak up on you like that again, okay? You don’t have to be scared around me, Buck.”

The promise in Steve’s voice is almost soothing. The Asset understands; it is getting better at figuring out Steve’s double-speak.

Steve doesn’t want his Asset scared, doesn’t want it shaking or struggling. The Asset knows already that he wants it willing, accepting of Steve’s touch. Steve’s just reminding the Asset of that fact.

“Thank you, Steve,” the Asset says, for the reminder, for Steve’s patience with it while it learns how Steve wants it to act.

Steve smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Still, he pets the Asset’s shoulder, lingers before stepping back. Reassuring. Claiming. He still wants to keep the Asset, and the Asset relaxes, feels safe.

Steve will teach it the new rules here. Steve is a tolerant teacher. Steve will make the Asset good.

-

There is an animal on the fire escape.

The Asset eyes the creature, small, black fur, yellow eyes. A cat. Harmless.

The Asset makes its way over to the window, slow and careful. The cat stares, but doesn’t flee. When the Asset reaches out its left hand, the cat sniffs him, then rubs its pink nose against the edge of the Asset’s fingers.

Cute, the Asset thinks, frowning a little at the thought.

It hears Steve in the hall, hears him stop at the doorway.

“Not allowed pets in the apartment,” Steve says.

He’s smiling when the Asset turns to look at him, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“We could leave a bowl out for it on the fire escape, though,” Steve says. “If you want.”

Steve wants the Asset to want things, a concept foreign and daunting to the Asset who has never wanted anything for itself before seeing Steve for the first time on that bridge.

The Asset nods, steps away from the window to face Steve fully, straightening to attention.

“Yes, Steve.”

Steve huffs, a sound like a laugh but not.

“You don’t have to agree with me just the for the sake of agreeing,” Steve says, pushing away from the doorframe and stalking closer.

The Asset tenses, ready for a blow, ready to take what Steve gives it without a fight if it means staying here where the Asset is kept safe and warm and well-fed.

Steve stops in front of the Asset, reaching out slowly, watching the Asset watch his approaching fingers. The Asset doesn’t twitch when those fingertips come to rest at his shoulder, but it’s close. It can feel the heat of Steve’s skin through the thin cotton of the t-shirt it is wearing. It wants to lean closer; doesn’t. Stands still and awaits instruction.

“You’re so tense all the time, Buck,” Steve says, voice soft. “You want me to help?”

The Asset nods, agreeing to whatever Steve has in mind, eager to learn the ways Steve will hurt it so it can more easily prepare in the future.

“Come on,” Steve says, moving away to sit on the sofa. He places a cushion on the floor between his feet. When the Asset moves to kneel, Steve says, “No, no. Sit.”

The Asset sits with its back to Steve, doesn’t jump or twitch when Steve’s hands come to rest at its throat, preparing for its air supply to be cut off.

Steve’s fingers don’t tighten, and the Asset frowns, confused. Instead, Steve slides his hands down the Asset’s neck to its shoulders, the touch sending a shudder through the Asset, something stirring awake in the Asset’s belly.

Steve digs his fingers into the Asset’s muscles, not enough to hurt, not enough to bruise, but enough to ache in a way that is bafflingly relaxing.

The Asset slumps back with a surprised gasp and Steve chuckles.

“Nice?” Steve asks. “You like it?”

“Yes, Steve,” the Asset replies, hanging its head to give Steve better access.

“Don’t worry, Bucky,” Steve says, kneading at the sore flesh where the Asset’s metal shoulder blade meets vulnerable skin, making the Asset whine. “I’ll take care of you, okay? Just relax.”

The Asset feels itself turn boneless and pliant, obeying the command.

Steve runs his fingers up through the Asset’s hair, scratches lightly at the Asset’s scalp, pets back down to the Asset’s shoulders, until the Asset’s world blurs and its mind drifts, weightless and content.

“Better?” Steve asks after an indeterminable amount of time has passed, hands stilling at the Asset’s shoulders and shocking it back to reality.

“Yes, Steve,” the Asset responds, tongue heavy. “Thank you.”

Steve pets the Asset’s hair once more before patting it lightly on the shoulder.

“I think you could do with a nap,” Steve says. “You sounded restless last night.”

The Asset nods, stands, takes itself to the bedroom Steve has designated for it, and lies down to feign sleep.

-

“Steve,” the Asset says, hesitant, its tongue growing slow when Steve turns to give it the full force of his gaze, his complete attention fixed entirely on the Asset.

The Asset pauses too long, but Steve is gentle when he prompts it.

“You okay, Bucky?”

The Asset swallows down its uncertainty in its new role and powers through.

“Can we have eggs for breakfast this morning?” it tries, casual speech the way Steve likes, mouth tilted up at one corner the way Steve likes, and it knows it’s done well when Steve’s whole body seems to shift.

It’s like Steve doesn’t just smile with his face but with all of himself, and the Asset stands in the doorway of the kitchen, dazzled. It’s never seen anyone look so pleased.

It feels pride at finally figuring out a little of what makes Steve happy, but it tucks the feeling carefully away before it forgets its place here. The Asset knows what happens, what _always_ happens, when it lets itself feels too keenly.

It doesn’t want to displease Steve. The Asset has not been allowed enough knowledge of how to function without a handler. If Steve were to discard it…

Its survival depends on keeping Steve happy.

“Sure, Bucky, of course,” Steve is saying, standing from his seat at the kitchen table quickly enough that his chair wobbles a little.

The Asset doesn’t blink, makes sure not to flinch from the sudden movement. Steve hates when the Asset flinches. The Asset learns its lessons well.

It stands for a moment, unsure, watching Steve move to the fridge for the eggs and the cupboard for the pan. The Asset becomes slightly distracted by the way Steve’s back muscles move, fixated in a way it doesn’t fully understand.

The Asset finds it hard to figure out what Steve wants it to ask for, only that Steve wants it to admit to _wanting._ It wonders if it should ask for what it truly wants, just this once, to see what happens. Steve has yet to punish the Asset; perhaps he’d allow it to press close, to take warmth and comfort from his touch. Perhaps he’d even welcome the request gladly.

Perhaps he’d want more than an embrace. Perhaps he’d want wet hot hurt, bruises and bite marks.

Perhaps Steve would be annoyed with the Asset growing needy. Perhaps his good mood will be spoiled if it pushes its luck.

The Asset ignores its fear and doubt and, emboldened, asks for something else. Something, maybe, a little less risky.

“Could you show me how to make breakfast, Steve?”

Steve spins around quickly, and the Asset is sure it’s overstepped, but then Steve breathes out, smiling in a way that seems sad, though that can’t be right.

“It’s funny,” Steve says, not sounding amused. “You were the one who taught me, first time around.”

The Asset looks away, feeling wounded. It isn’t the Asset that Steve is talking about, but there’s something in his voice that makes the Asset _ache,_ that makes it _wish_ it were the man Steve thinks it is.

Wishes are meaningless.

The Asset straightens, locks eyes with Steve again, and gives his handler what he wants.

“Well, guess you got it easy then, pal. All you gotta do is jog my memory.”

-

It is bound. Helpless. Silent. Silenced by its masters’ command. They told it not to make a sound, and so it doesn’t, though its body hurts, though its vision is blurred with tears.

It will have to disobey, eventually. It will be unable to hold in its voice, the pain will overwhelm it and it will whimper or yelp, and then it will be punished even more harshly for it misbehaviour—

The Asset jolts awake, panting and sweating in the sleep clothes Steve bought for it. It’s able, most nights, to bite back its voice, keep in the terror. It lies wide-eyed and quiet, and trembles.

The longer it’s thawed, the worst the dreams get. Memories come to it, relentless and horrifying.

Steve is there every morning, always steady, always smiling when he sees the Asset. The Asset is coveted, here; a peculiar and uncomfortably warm feeling.

The Asset is useful, understands it myriad of uses, but Steve has yet to make use of it, in any capacity, and the Asset is left drifting unmoored on a sea of worry, feeling constantly on the brink of being discarded.

Despite its uselessness, Steve is often caring, protective. The Asset hears Steve’s phone calls refusing people entry, not wanting to let them near his Bucky. He doesn’t let his Asset out of the apartment alone. He is possessive of his property.

It makes the Asset… Bucky… _the Asset_ feel safe.

 _Steve_ makes Bucky… Steve makes _the Asset_ feel safe.

Eventually the monsters of the Asset’s dreams are chased away by red, white and blue, and it begins to wake well-rested.

-

There is a night when Steve leaves Bucky alone.

He tells it to stay in the apartment, tells it to apprehend anyone who might come trying to harm it, and his voice reminds Bucky firmly that Steve is its handler.

Bucky forgets its place sometimes, and Steve allows Bucky to get away with it so often that it had let itself be lulled into thinking…

It isn’t sure what Steve makes it think.

When Bucky hears explosions in the distance it knows Steve is there, in trouble, Steve’s in trouble, Steve might be hurt, Bucky has to go, he has to help—

He’s at the window, one foot on the sill ready to take the fire escape down, when he remembers Steve’s stern expression, Steve’s clear orders.

The Asset sits back down, and though every inch of it is squirming to go out and check Steve is okay, it waits dutifully until Steve returns.

Steve says thank you, the next day, when he comes back to Bucky. He thanks Bucky for not following, for staying home, for keeping himself safe.

He says, “I don’t know what I’d do, Bucky…” and though his voice is gentle, Bucky feels the threat in the words.

It is relieved that it obeyed. It made the right choice.

-

Eventually, Steve starts to take Bucky out in the mornings. Short walks around the corner to the little coffee shop that sits there.

The first time Steve takes Bucky there, Steve asks Bucky what he wants, and the panic sweeps the ground from under him. Bucky stands, and shakes, and stares unseeing at the menu board.

“Too much choice?” Steve asks, and Bucky turns his wide eyes to take in Steve’s smile.

Steve is… pleased? Yes, Bucky thinks. Pleased to remind Bucky of how much he needs Steve.

“I know what you mean,” Steve is saying, the words passing through Bucky as he tries to calm himself. “It’s pretty different from the good old days.”

“I don’t even know what most of this stuff _means,_ ” Bucky says, in that tone of voice that he’s learnt often makes Steve laugh.

It works.

“I’m not sure the guys making it do, either,” Steve says, chuckling, warm.

Bucky thinks, suddenly, of hot pancakes dusted with sugar melting from the heat. They could never afford syrup.

The thought comes out of nowhere, and means nothing to Bucky besides, so he dismisses it.

“You liked your coffee black, before,” Steve says, voice growing careful. “We could try that.”

Bucky nods, grateful for Steve taking pity on him and rescinding the test. He failed, but he feels like maybe he was supposed to. Steve seems happy as he orders two black coffees to go.

The coffee is bitter and strong, doesn’t go down easy, but Bucky drinks it thankfully, each harsh mouthful a reminder that Steve is there to provide comfort and direction. Security. Safety.

Steve asks Bucky if he likes the coffee. Steve asks Bucky things like that a lot. He looks at Bucky proud and soft when Bucky dutifully tells him yes, he does, and thank you Steve.

Steve orders for them both every time after that.

Bucky enjoys the heat from the paper cup as Steve leads him back to the apartment. He’s always aware of the press of the surrounding people, the jostle and noise of the streets, but it’s easy to ignore with Steve’s dazzling smile to focus on.

-

Bucky is just getting comfortable, dangerously comfortable, when Steve suggests Bucky might like to meet the other Avengers.

Bucky doesn’t want to, his whole being resisting the idea, but he sweeps the reaction hastily aside.

“Do you feel up for that, yet, Buck?” Steve asks, prompting.

Bucky gives Steve what he wants.

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, I’ve been thinking of asking.”

-

Tony is the first to greet Bucky, with his hands outstretched greedily towards Bucky’s left arm. Bucky steps back, but Tony continues to close in, and Bucky panics briefly until he hears Steve’s steady voice.

“Don’t worry about Tony, he’s harmless. Mostly.”

Bucky hears the order for what it is, the gentle threat lurking beneath the words, and forces his body to relax. He lets his mind drift and Tony takes his left hand in his own. Bucky hasn’t had to endure an exam in a while, much longer than any other handler has ever allowed, so he knows he should feel grateful.

Before, Bucky would’ve been encouraged to feel nothing at all, and he longs for that now.

Steve doesn’t want Bucky to feel nothing. Steve is kind in other ways, but not in this.

Bucky endures it, and he knows Steve wants him to want the contact so he doesn’t frown the way he wants to, or pull back the way he wants to.

Steve is watching Bucky’s reactions closely, and seems pleased when Bucky remains docile.

When Tony finally steps back, Bucky notices he is talking, realises that he’s been talking the whole time, and Bucky is being addressed directly, and he has no idea what they want him to say. He’s caught off guard, not expecting to be set upon immediately, and it’s so careless, and he looks to Steve, willing to beg, willing to give Steve whatever he wants if he forgives this lack of respect for his team member.

“You okay, Bucky?” Steve asks, so quiet, like Bucky’s answer has to be whispered, a secret.

Bucky follows his cue, lowers his voice to match Steve’s own, and tries to apologise without saying sorry. Steve doesn’t like Bucky to say sorry.

“I don’t know what he’s been saying to me,” Bucky whispers, and Steve smiles. Bucky can’t tell why, but it’s a comfort regardless.

“People rarely do,” Steve says in that tone he gets when he wants Bucky to point out a person’s flaws with him.

Sometimes Bucky will lean in closer to Steve, and Steve will smile all soft and sweet, and lay his hand hot and light at Bucky’s shoulder, filling Bucky up with something terrifying and yearning. Sometimes Bucky will lean in closer to Steve, and Steve will frown and jolt and turn quickly away, like Bucky’s proximity is painful, and it steals the air from Bucky’s lungs as effectively as a punch to the gut.

Bucky assesses the situation quickly, takes the gamble, and steps into Steve’s space, lifts up the corner of his mouth just the way Steve likes.

“You’re telling me,” Bucky says, carefully crafting the words, voice light and amused to match Steve’s own. “The man’s a mile a minute. I don’t think he’s taken a breath in since we got here.”

It has the desired effect. Steve’s huff of a laugh flares hot across Bucky’s mouth. Bucky finds himself watching closely as pink creeps across Steve’s dimpled cheeks. Bucky finds himself examining the way Steve’s eyes crinkle.

Steve steps back, still smiling, warming Bucky’s bones. He turns to stand at Bucky’s side, moves to rest his palm flat between Bucky’s shoulder blades to guide him further into the room where the rest of his colleagues are waiting. Tony steps aside, out of Steve’s path, and smoothly fits himself alongside Steve, talking for the duration of the short walk.

“So that’s a rain check then, gotcha, another time.” He leans a little closer to Steve to say, “It wouldn’t _hurt,_ I mean, I won’t even have to touch him if that’s an issue, JARVIS could check him out for me—“

“ _Tony,_ ” Steve says, in his handler voice, and Bucky focuses more keenly on the press of Steve’s hand, though Steve wasn’t addressing him.

Tony raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay, but you know where to find me when you change your mind.”

Bucky clears his face, perfectly neutral. Tony’s words hit heavy, settling like stone in Bucky’s gut.

Tony wanders off to the bar in the large room, and Bucky quickly assesses their surroundings and the people waiting for them.

A wall of windows: no escape there, even without the huge drop down, as they’re sure to be reinforced. A balcony: useful for cover, but little else. Two doors, both closed, no way of knowing where they lead until he’s already through them. And the elevator he and Steve arrived in.

The whole building is sure to have unfathomably good security.

Bucky feels more and more trapped the harder he thinks about it.

That and the five pairs of eyes suddenly fixed upon him has him settling into the Soldier the way he hasn’t for months now.

The Asset breathes deep, stands straight, waits for instruction.

“You sure you wanna do this, buddy?” Steve asks, hand a heavy warning at the Asset’s spine.

What it knows he means is, _‘You want to do this.’_

What it knows he means is, _‘Do this.’_

“I want to,” the Asset says, stepping forward.

What it means is, _‘Ready to comply.’_

-

Steve introduces his teammates and the Asset pays close attention, tries to memorise every detail, listens closely to what Steve tells it.

A man, Clint, and a woman, Natasha, sit close together on one sofa. Clint’s eyes are narrowed in suspicion, while Natasha’s are carefully blank.

The Asset eyes the bow and the quiver of arrows beside the sofa, the archery glove on Clint’s right hand. It makes note of the aids in Clint’s ears, a potential weakness to exploit. It eyes the fingerless gloves on Natasha’s hands, modified into weapons, and the daggers at her belt and ankle, the small handgun strapped to her other leg.

The Asset nods to the pair in curt greeting, neutral and calm, and when Steve’s hand presses just slightly, the Asset turns to the man sitting hunched at the other end of the sofa.

Bruce, the next man is called; he waves, looking awkward, shy. He’s good, the Asset thinks. It might even have disregarded him as harmless had it not heard the stories of what he’s capable of. Bruce has no visible weapons and the Asset is sure he has none concealed either. He doesn’t need them.

Tony throws himself down to sit beside Bruce, arm around Bruce’s shoulders. It’s clear that Tony uses touch to distract, fast words and flirtatious charm to disarm those around him.

Steve says Tony is a genius. The Asset makes a note of it. Tony’s sharp and guarded eyes. Tony’s gleaming, keen interest in the Asset’s arm.

Tony, the Asset is sure, will be the one that Steve hands it over to, when it’s time for its next recalibration. Bucky— _the Asset_ presses a little closer to Steve, hoping, for what little good that will do, that it can keep Steve pleased enough with it to avoid that.

The stress of the thought – of being passed to the unknown quantity that is Tony Stark – is enough to make Bucky damp around the edges with nervous sweat.

Sam is stood a little off to the side with another man, and the Asset stands straighter as they make their way closer.

“Steve!” the man bellows, arms wide, grin sharp.

He is huge, and golden, and _loud._ Process of elimination tells the Asset his name, as if there could be any doubt. The man seems every bit the god that people say he is. The air around him seems to quiver.

Steve’s hand falls away from the Asset’s spine as he moves to embrace the golden man, and the Asset… Bucky… _the Asset_ almost forgets himself—itself, its hand twitching, about to reach out to keep Steve close to it. The near miss makes Bucky feel ashamed, and he— _it_ stands straighter, at attention, desperate to prove how good it can be.

It knows it has to be careful, here. These people will expect the kind of casual speech that the Asset is still learning to navigate. Failure isn’t an option. Tony is still watching the Asset, eager, ready to offer his services should Steve grow tired of keeping such a useless thing around. The thought makes the Asset feel cold.

The huge, golden man is releasing his hold on Steve and turning his attention towards the Asset. It lifts in chin in respect, but focuses its gaze at the man’s chest.

Submit. Defer.

“And you must be Bucky,” the man near-shouts, reaching out a hand like he’s about to strike.

The Asset closes its eyes, ready to take the blow without complaint, but the hand only lands light and harmless at its shoulder. When the Asset opens its eyes, surprised, the man is still smiling but Steve, just behind him, looks displeased.

Bucky— _the Asset_ panics for just a second before its training kicks in and it settles, grows still and steady, slipping on the easy demeanour it wears so well for Steve.

Casual speech, it reminds itself.

“That’s my name,” it agrees, not a lie anymore. It’s the name Steve has given to it.

It slips on a smile, glances at Steve to gauge his reaction, sees Steve’s frown easing and feels the tension in its own chest easing with it.

The Asset looks back at the giant, examines his relaxed posture and open expression. He seems pleased that the Asset is aware he could hurt it, and that it was ready to receive the blow without moving to defend itself. The Asset makes a note of it.

“And you must be Thor,” the Asset counters, widening its grin, slipping its hands into its pockets, to convey it is at ease.

The Asset is not at ease, but Steve likes it to pretend.

“That’s my name!” Thor crows, slapping at the Asset’s arm again, slightly harder this time.

The Asset bows its head a little to show that it is suitably cowed by the display, and Thor pats it one final time before stepping back.

“I’m thinking we should order take out,” Steve says, setting his sights on the Asset, and it snaps to attention, ready to figure out what reply Steve expects from it. “What do you want, Bucky?”

Steve is testing the Asset hard today, watching it closely to make sure it complies with Steve’s high expectations. The Asset feels exhausted already, but doesn’t show it, determined to make the grade.

Steve is the best handler the Asset has ever had, is likely to ever have. He’s hard on the Asset in ways it’s not used to, but all the thinking it has to do to keep Steve happy makes its brain ache in a good way, like working an underused muscle.

The Asset thinks fast: what food Steve likes, what foods the two of them have had recently, what foods Steve is likely to have in mind.

“Pizza,” the Asset says, performing confidence for the crowd. “Mushroom and pepperoni,” it adds: Steve’s favourite.

Steve grins, rests his hand at the Asset’s arm, pets up and down. The Asset breathes out. It answered correctly. It is good.

“You read my mind, Buck,” Steve says, which means, _‘Well done, good little thing.’_

The Asset’s answering smile is genuine.

-

The Asset has been at Avengers tower for hours now, and it is gruelling work. The Asset is beginning to tire substantially, its eyes growing heavy, its headache growing insistent. The Avengers keep touching the Asset, reminding it of its place. It wishes Steve would show mercy and tell them to stop, but he doesn’t seem inclined to so the Asset endures it.

When a movie is suggested, everyone piles onto the large couches, and Steve allows it when the Asset squeezes itself between him and the arm so none of the Avengers can reach it.

Steve pets his Asset’s hair as the others argue over what to watch. Steve’s voice is a soft whisper against his Asset’s cheek when he speaks.

“You’re doing good, Bucky. I’m proud of you.”

Bucky – the Asset – _Bucky,_ Steve named it Bucky and that’s what it is—

Bucky melts into Steve’s side, can’t help the way its muscles go lax at Steve’s words, the relief of it making its body feel heavy.

“Thank you, Steve,” Bucky sighs, shoulders sagging.

Steve so very rarely offers praise; Bucky must have done better than it thought today for Steve to gift it with such direct approval.

“Hey,” Steve says, scratching lightly at Bucky’s scalp. “You okay?”

Bucky sneaks its fingers into the creases of Steve’s sweater, bunches up the material in its careful grip. It feels frighteningly needy for Steve’s attention, for comfort and safety and reassurance. Feeling brave with Steve sounding so soft, petting so gently through Bucky’s hair, Bucky rests his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, presses his face to Steve’s neck, breathes out the shaking air in his lungs.

Steve likes Bucky to open up his chest and reveal each emotion squirming inside, so Bucky mumbles a confession of his weakness.

“I feel tired.” Steve likes Bucky to like things, so Bucky admits: “I like being close to you.”

Steve hums approval in his throat, holds Bucky close.

“Me too, Buck.”

-

“Hand it over here,” a voice says. “It’s my turn.”

“No it isn’t, I’m next,” a second voice says.

“God, you’re like children,” a third voice says. “Just play nice, you’re killing the mood.”

“Fine,” the first voice huffs. “We’ll share. I got places to be.”

There’s a sharp tug at its hair, a rough slap to its cheek.

“Open up,” the first voice says.

It obeys, relaxing its throat to ease the ache as best it can.

“Good little thing,” the first voice says, fingers tightening at its hair.

It drifts, its mind wandering as it’s emptied out, a nothingness settling in its chest. The void is a comfort. It welcomes the emptiness, lets its mind float away from the hurt overwhelming its body.

It will be repaired, afterwards, and then it will be left alone to shake and to heal before being wiped clean. Perhaps then it will sleep, or, if its owners are merciful, it will be given a mission, and the rage in its chest will be allowed to grow form and hone in on a deserving target.

For now, it drifts, and thinks nothing at all.

When Bucky wakes, confused and frightened and bombarded with sensation, he jolts against the arms holding him, feels his skin crawl as fingers run through his hair.

“Hey, hey,” Steve mumbles, voice deep and sleepy and soft. “I’ve got you, Bucky, don’t worry.”

Bucky settles, breathing in Steve’s scent, nestling into the warmth of Steve’s body, feeling his panic seep away.

It’s okay, Bucky thinks, clinging to Steve’s sweater. It’s okay. I’m still Steve’s. I’m still Bucky. They haven’t found me.

The thought leaves Bucky unsettled, blinking back tears, syncing up his breathing with the slow, steady rhythm of Steve’s chest in an attempt to calm himself.

Steve’s got me, Bucky reminds himself. Steve’s got me, and he won’t let me go. Not while I’m being so good for him.

Bucky sighs, hides his face back in Steve’s neck, relaxes as the possessive hold of Steve’s arm around his waist tightens, holding him close.

Bucky is Steve’s. Hydra could send an army, and Steve still wouldn’t let them take him.

Bucky smiles, slumping against Steve’s side, dozing back off to the sound of Steve’s light snoring and the Avengers’ quiet conversation in the background.

Bucky is safe.

-

“You did so well tonight,” Steve tells Bucky once they’re both home.

The words make Bucky grin, proud of himself, and Steve encourages the reaction with a smile of his own.

“I know how you can be with crowds, sometimes, and, yeah, they’re my best friends but.” Steve laughs, shrugging out of his coat. “They can be a bit… full-on.”

Steve hangs his coat up, then offers out a hand to take Bucky’s. Bucky shifts his coat off his shoulders quickly, hands it over.

“I thought you’d only want to stay for an hour or so,” Steve says as he hangs Bucky’s coat up next to his own. “It was nice, seeing you all getting along.”

“They’re good people,” Bucky says, and once the words are out he finds he truly means it.

There were no direct threats of violence, no physical displays of dominance that left Bucky hurting and weak. Their reminders of his place in the group were constant, but gentle: hands at his shoulder or arm or knee to show that they can touch him how they please, but nothing rough, nothing aggressive.

No one made advances towards his body; Steve is a protective handler and Bucky’s sure everyone in the room knew Steve wouldn’t allow it.

 _Steve wouldn’t allow it,_ and Bucky feels safer than he’s felt for a long time. Forever, maybe.

The day went much better than Bucky had feared it would, and something inside him finally relaxes fully at the thought.

He can keep these people happy. He can stay with Steve.

There’s a fleeting impression of a thought flittering somewhere in the shadows of Bucky’s mind that says: you can earn a place with them. Bucky shoos it quickly away. He knows better than to set himself up for a fall such as that. That line of thought will lead nowhere but painful, disappointing failure.

Steve, now, pets at Bucky’s shoulder, his bicep, pulling him from his thoughts with a warm, open, comforting expression.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Bucky,” Steve says. “You seem to be doing much better, lately.”

Bucky’s chest turns liquid and hot.

“Yeah?” he asks, greedy for the praise, feeling dizzy from how much of it Steve is offering.

Bucky is already wondering when he will next be allowed to endure another evening with the Avengers. If it means Steve looking at him like this again, he’d do anything.

Steve nods, hand still at Bucky’s bicep, lips quirking in a way Bucky doesn’t want to look away from.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, soft, so soft.

“Yeah, Steve?”

Steve chews on his bottom lip, feet shifting like he can’t decide whether he wants to step closer or step back. Bucky waits, heart trembling, tense though not from fear.

“Do you remember?” Steve finally asks, looking so hopeful, flooding Bucky with a desperate urge to lie, to tell Steve whatever he wants to hear.

But Bucky can’t lie, not about this, he can’t give Steve what he wants, he can’t comply—

“I’m sorry,” Bucky blurts, panicked, before remembering himself, remembering Steve doesn’t like apologies.

Bucky breathes in deep, trying to steady himself, trying to ready himself for punishment.

“No, Buck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t push,” Steve says, disappointed, pulling away.

Bucky steps closer on instinct, missing the warmth of Steve’s hands, needing the stability of Steve’s touch, and Steve’s eyes go round with surprise.

Bucky realises, then: his punishment was a lack of contact, an unmooring, a denial of the thing Bucky craves the most. Bucky has just disobeyed. Steve’s going to be angry, but…

But Steve wants Bucky to want. Bucky knows he does. Bucky sees it every time he eats something and hums his enjoyment and Steve’s eyes go molten and pleased. Bucky sees it every time they watch a movie together than has Bucky laughing genuine and loud and, when he turns to Steve, Steve isn’t watching the screen, but has been watching Bucky instead, intense and focused like he’s memorising him.

Bucky hears it every time he asks for something and Steve breathes in shaky and excited and says, “Of course, Bucky.”

Steve wants Bucky to feel too keenly.

Steve wants Bucky crushed beneath the weight of his emotions.

Steve wants Bucky to want, and Bucky does, oh, he _wants._

“I don’t remember,” Bucky tells Steve, desperate to win Steve’s forgiveness, apologising properly this time, careful not to say the word. “I don’t remember, but… I like being close to you. I… want to be close to you.”

The sensors of Bucky’s left arm register contact and he looks down in surprise to see Steve’s flesh and blood fingers wrapped loosely around Bucky’s own metal digits.

“Can you feel that?” Steve asks, curious, studying Bucky closely.

His eyes are so bright Bucky can barely stand to look at them directly.

“Yes,” Bucky tells him, and, feeling brave at the gentle wonder in Steve’s gaze, Bucky presses his right hand to Steve’s waist without asking permission, taking Steve’s warmth for his own.

Steve’s other hand comes up to rest at the side of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky breathes in deep and trembling.

“Buck,” Steve whispers, “I’m so scared, man.”

Bucky frowns, startled by the statement, studying the worried tilt of Steve’s eyebrows, the tightness of Steve’s mouth.

“Scared? Of me?” Bucky asks, confused and oddly hurt. Not a hurt of the body, no; Steve is not so merciful. Steve hurts him much deeper.

Bucky couldn’t hurt Steve even if he wanted to. Steve is Bucky’s handler. Or... _maybe,_ Bucky’s mind whispers, dangerous and seductive, maybe… Steve is your ally. Maybe… Steve is your friend.

“No,” Steve replies, shaking his head like he’s heard Bucky’s thoughts. His nose almost brushes against the tip of Bucky’s; Bucky doesn’t recall moving to stand so closely. “I’m scared of messing this all up.”

“You can’t mess up,” Bucky says, quiet, “You’re Captain America.”

Steve breathes through his nose, soft huff of amusement. He trails his fingers across the smooth, warm metal of Bucky’s left arm, sending the sensors firing, Bucky’s brain lighting up too bright under the unusual sensation.

Bucky watches the shine of Steve’s tongue as it peeks out to lap at Steve’s lower lip. Bucky wants to sway forward, mimic the movement, but a kiss is something he only barely remembers, and when he starts to think too hard on it all he can think is hands too rough on him, teeth too sharp. A kiss is something he’s not allowed to give; it’s something to be snatched forcefully from him.

Bucky feels lit up, buzzing with energy, but he also feels _so tired,_ brain overloaded from the long day of figuring out what Steve wants. He longs for direction, needs the comfort of an order, any direct command that Steve will offer. Bucky feels desperate with the need for Steve to tell him what to do.

“What do you want, Steve?” Buck asks, a plea, pathetic and vulnerable.

Steve’s eyes darken, pupils dilating impossibly wide, perhaps pleased by the tone, perhaps hungry for the quivering heart huddled in Bucky’s chest. Bucky thinks Steve wants to reach his fingers between Bucky’s ribs and open up the cage of his feelings, drink down the mess he finds there. Bucky knows he’d let him without hesitation.

“I wanna kiss you, Buck,” Steve says, deep and ravenous.

Oh, Bucky thinks, his chest going loose with something like relief, or defeat. There it is.

“Can I?” Steve asks, trailing his fingers up Bucky’s left arm, his other hand moving from Bucky’s neck and into the soft waves of Bucky’s hair. “Do you want me to?”

Steve has made Bucky wait for it, but finally he has a directive. It isn’t hot gunmetal in his hands, isn’t the hard vibration of a bullet being let loose ricocheting up his arms and into his struggling heart, but it gives Bucky purpose and Bucky clings to that. He wishes Steve had demanded it, had tightened his loose grip in Bucky’s hair and sent Bucky to that quiet place in the corner of his mind.

But Steve wants Bucky to want it, wants Bucky to feel every moment, and Bucky finds obeying the desire all too easy. It was the Asset’s least favourite duty, but still he wants it, because it is Steve, and Steve so rarely gives Bucky orders that this one, now, doesn’t seem so terrible.

Perhaps that was Steve’s plan all along. To deny and withhold until Bucky is desperate for every scrap, scrambling to obey, to earn Steve’s favour.

It’s worked. Bucky wants to please Steve; he feels it thrumming in his belly like burning.

“Yes,” Bucky says, a shaky whisper blown on the hard breath of Bucky’s need. Steve wants Bucky to beg, and Bucky will, gladly. “Yes, _please._ ”

It’s so easy to give Steve what he wants, when he asks for so little.

When Steve presses his mouth to Bucky’s, so soft Bucky can barely feel it, there’s a second where Bucky’s chest flinches back, bracing itself for Steve’s grip to turn bruising, for Steve’s voice to grow cold.

It would send Bucky flying out in every direction. It would take Bucky apart, reduce him to nothing but atoms. There’s a _trust_ living in Bucky’s trembling lungs, curled up and frightened, ready to implode in on itself and leave nothing of Bucky behind but a shell ready to be used as his owner sees fit.

Bucky doesn’t tense on the outside, stays carefully soft, but inside he’s ready to shatter to nothing.

But Steve stays gentle and kind, his lips moving slow against Bucky’s until Bucky is huffing out a hard breath through his nose, angling his head to push closer, searching for comfort but – more than that – frantic to complete his task.

Steve is going to hurt him, and Bucky is going to let him, is going to relish in the feeling of being wanted, needed, useful. Still, he’s terrified. Bucky has had this done to him before, but never by someone so cruel. His past handlers have always let him drift away from the hurt. Steve wants him not only to feel it, but to beg for it, plead for it, actively participate in his own undoing.

Bucky’s fingers twitch at Steve’s waist, reach out to rest at Steve’s lower back and pull him closer, pressing their mouths more firmly together.

At the first press of Steve’s tongue against his lips Bucky opens up eagerly, ready to be entered, ready to be emptied out. His mind starts to drift of its own accord and Bucky has to focus hard to clear the fog. Steve wants him present, he reminds himself. Steve wants Bucky to _feel_ it, so he will.

Bucky wants to ask, ‘Did you and Barnes do this? Is this the reason you kept me?’

He swallows down the words, sucks on Steve’s tongue, cherishes the sound he makes.

Then Steve is pulling back, and Bucky wants to chase after his mouth, feels needy with it. He almost leans forward as Steve leans back, but he doesn’t; Bucky stays still, a good little thing. He stands, hands at Steve’s waist, ready to drop if Steve wishes it, and he waits for his orders.

Bucky wants to cling, wants to press in tight, but he isn’t sure if it’s allowed.

I could try it, he thinks. Maybe that’s what Steve wants. He wants me to want it, after all.

“Maybe we should slow down,” Steve says, breathless, staring openly at Bucky’s panting mouth. There’s hesitation in his tone: more double-speak.

Little punk wants me to argue, Bucky thinks, wants _me_ to be the one to persuade _him._

“Stevie, we’ve been makin’ eyes at each other our whole lives. Any slower, we’ll grow _moss._ ”

Bucky’s mind stalls for a second, startled. That… wasn’t what he was planning on saying, but…

But Steve is looking at Bucky now like Bucky hung the moon up in the sky, just for him.

“Bucky,” Steve says, chest heaving, and then he’s leaning back in, hand pressed between Bucky’s shoulder blades, sliding up to clutch at the back of Bucky’s neck, fingers gripping tight at Bucky’s hair to hold him still.

There he is, Bucky thinks. My handler. My keeper.

Bucky’s muscles slump, pliant under Steve’s hard grip, whining in the back of his throat. Steve starts to pull back again, and Bucky can’t take the tease, it’s too much, drawing it all out like this. Bucky tests his earlier theory, chases after Steve’s mouth, not letting him break contact, and proves himself correct when Steve growls low and clutches Bucky rough and demanding.

Steve starts to walk backwards, dragging Bucky helpless into the belly of the apartment and towards Steve’s bedroom.

Bucky follows, easy, ready to serve.

Ready to comply.

**Author's Note:**

> so, i started writing this just after watching the winter soldier (FIVE years ago??? what???) and just got around to (sort of) finishing it. just to give you an idea of how good i am at finishing my wips :)
> 
> this started out as a second person pov, but as it started getting out of control and more and more detail ploughed its way in, i switched it to third person which, actually, allowed me to convey bucky's identity confusion better, so, good call, self!
> 
> i have a lot of little scenes here and there in my mind for this version of bucky. i'd love to add to this. i'd love more of bucky and sam, and more of bucky and tony, and i have a moment of bucky coming face to face with a hydra agent stuck in my head that i just need to give words to. but no doubt it'll be another five years before i get around to writing anything out.
> 
> thanks for reading! wish me luck for writing more of this!
> 
> (thanks to SubverbalDreams for reminding me how much i love bucky barnes)


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